


On the Cusp

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Written for vardaslade. Prompt: "Graphic first kisses are the beeeeeest." Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/38806.html</p></blockquote>





	On the Cusp

  
Contrary to common assumptions, including those of their close acquaintances, Sherlock knew John was the more fragile of the two. Sherlock might be thinner and paler—and occasionally high-strung—but things got to John. He could only weather dehydration, lack of sleep, or emotional turmoil for so long before they began to affect him. When Sherlock crashed, it was quite bad, indeed, but that was because he was a specialist in keeping things at bay; he knew how to block, to deny, while relentlessly pursued whatever he had his nose trained on. Sherlock was supreme at compartmentalizing. John was just about adequate. It was oddly endearing that John actually thought he was good at it, but Sherlock wasn’t going to dispel that belief. It seemed the sort of thing John might get upset about.

Sherlock accumulated thicker tension than John. He sped up recklessly inside his tunnel vision, which meant that when he did crash it resulted in a near shut-down. John, on the other hand, didn’t collapse. And even when he was close to it, naturally things never got dramatic. But Sherlock was sure John’s crashes would be much worse than his own. A crash was only as bad as one’s potential to feel it, and in the scary, astringent area of feelings John Watson was a very capable individual.

They’d lived together for ten months, yet despite his frequent teetering on the edge of physical strain and the high number of incidents that had threatened his life, John was doing remarkably well. There had been one or two occasions when he had withdrawn into himself, battery obviously blinking—usually after very taxing emotional experiences with Sherlock at their heart. Sherlock wasn’t privy to outbursts of guilt, but he was familiar with the feeling. With him it all depended on what induced the guilt, but that approach required deliberation and John had none about such things. In fact, for all John’s nagging and theatrical suffering Sherlock was pretty sure he would be mortified if he found out how often Sherlock felt guilty because of him.

Which was why now, along with his concern for John, Sherlock also felt relief that he hadn’t done anything to bring this crash about. Well, technically he took some part in the first portion of the program: depleting John of all his energy and strength, by insisting John accompany him to Glasgow. The timing _was_ unfortunate—John had just completed five shifts at the surgery within three and a half days—but it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that half the NHS staff would have bowed their heads in shame at “Physician, heal thyself!” Everyone was on sick leave! Nor was it Sherlock’s fault that John’s sense of responsibility, coupled with his stoicism, meant he would willingly work what was practically three shifts in a row. Sherlock was sure John held viruses at arm’s length by the sheer power of his determination to remain healthy and on duty. (The fact that the same dedication stretched to encompass Sherlock’s business was an entirely separate matter. Sherlock’s business was important and by proxy so was Sherlock. To John. Maybe not _the_ most important, but when Sherlock took a moment to inspect John’s life, he failed to see what else, or who else, could be _more_ important.)

Straight after the gruelling marathon of shifts they’d started for Scotland and John had proceeded to stay awake for most of the following thirty-six hours. The case didn’t involve much running or other exertion but they were both on their feet nonetheless—there was an awful lot of skulking about in dark alleyways by warehouses. It didn’t matter to Sherlock, for whom time ceased to exist when he was chasing a clue, regardless of whether the chase was a literal one. But it made a difference to John. Doing nothing tired him more than anything. They spent hours and hours just watching, and Sherlock had to admit he wasn’t the most sparkling company on a stakeout, especially when it was cold.

He had suggested John stay behind for that part, but John only cast him a bemused look and ignored the offer altogether.

On the train ride back Sherlock could see the onset of the crash. It wasn’t just the shade of John’s skin, overemphasized by the ghastly lighting in the compartment. It was in every detail: the tremor in John’s left hand and the sluggishness of the right one moving to cover it; the line of his shoulders, resembling a very thin coat-hanger with a soaked woollen coat drooping from it. John’s eyes, of course. The corners of John’s mouth. Sherlock had no filter whatsoever to sieve through all the John-related data. It hit _en bloc_ , indifferent to which parts of it Sherlock needed, if any. Thankfully, he did need it—all of it. _Everything_ about John had some significance, or would surely have it in the future. On the train Sherlock took it all into storage and could have easily told John that stopping by to catch up with Harriet— convenient to their route though she be—was a bad idea. But he said absolutely nothing instead. He could feel himself plummeting with the anti-climax of the case and, where on average he trusted his judgement little on the matters of sibling relations, under the circumstances he didn’t trust his own judgement _at all_. He doubted that a warning to John would have made a difference, anyway. In many ways John was quite strong-headed underneath that big, dove-eyed countenance. So he had gotten off the train at seven forty-five in the morning and had gone to visit his sister.

It was exactly seven forty-five in the evening when John walked back into their sitting room, and Sherlock—rested, bathed, and sharp as a pin—fought a powerful impulse to jump from the sofa and catch him in his arms.

John didn’t sway, not really. But whether it was Sherlock’s hyper-perceptiveness or a trick of the light, the feeling that John was about to tumble in front of Sherlock’s eyes was very real.

Sherlock was the first to greet him—a rare occurrence even when John was upset with him. John’s drained “hi” hooked itself at the collar of Sherlock’s dressing gown and jerked him up with the offer of a hot drink. It was an act directed as much at melting away some of John’s discomfort as it was at dealing with Sherlock’s.

John nodded. “Tea. Thanks.”

Sherlock was in the kitchen in an instant, filling the kettle and already flipping through some takeaway menus in his head. He matched John’s preferences against the food’s speed of preparation and delivery, and managed to narrow the options down to Indian and pizza. This was where he hesitated. He didn’t want to presume, to go ahead and order on behalf of John. But he also knew John got confused when there were too many things to choose from, and it would be ten times worse tonight. Perhaps Sherlock should just give John the two menus and watch him carefully, deduce what exactly was it that John wanted before John had wasted any energy on figuring it out. Then Sherlock could make a suggestion such as “Why don’t we try _this_?” and John would only have to nod—

Oh, for God’s sake, what was _happening_ with the water? Sherlock would have to do something about that kettle. It was taking centuries to boil, even after he had poured out the excess water for his own drink, leaving only the amount necessary for John’s tea. The blasted pot continued to snore and gurgle with maddening nonchalance. The click of the switch, indicating that the water had finally boiled, was the equivalent of the kettle rudely flipping Sherlock off.

He brought John’s drink to the sitting room to discover that John had settled into the imprint Sherlock had left on his side of the sofa. Sherlock placed the cup on the table in front of John and walked around to sit on the other end. He wasn’t sure if John wanted the TV on so he muted the sound and wordlessly nudged the remote closer to John. John just lifted his right hand and covered his eyes. Sherlock switched off the TV and leaned back into the sofa, turning slightly toward John.

And that was how they stayed for five minutes. When not on a stakeout five minutes felt like…well, five minutes. And when one was worrying about one’s competence at dealing with another person’s needs, five minutes felt like a _very_ long time. During that time Sherlock reviewed and abandoned the takeaway plans—he noticed a couple of tiny flakes on John’s jacket, indicating he’d had some sort of pastry, a croissant most likely. As early as the second minute Sherlock also said his only sentence: “Your tea is getting cold.” But John just shook his head and didn’t let go of his face.

Now he sighed—more a motion of his upper body than a real sound but it still had enough strength to hit Sherlock squarely in the chest. He decided it was time for another attempt.

“Bad day?” He ventured, startled at how deep his voice sounded.

John lifted his head sharply, turning it to Sherlock. Sherlock felt goosebumps rise, instant and curious, at the amalgamation of emotions on John’s face: Great fatigue. Weariness, too—quite unfathomable to Sherlock, whose skill at compartmentalizing also meant he rarely had to experience the multi-faceted complexity of just… _being_. When Sherlock had a case, it was all that mattered. When he didn’t have a case, he suffered. But that suffering was equally all-consuming; it was the lack of work and lack of work only that caused it. When he wasn’t on a case but hadn’t managed to get bored, either, Sherlock had his studies and experiments—and that was pretty much it. From time to time Mycroft dropped by and all Sherlock’s focus went to managing their encounter and dealing with its fall out. Recently John had taken a hefty share of Sherlock’s attention, but John somehow blended into everything, really—he had become intrinsic to the fabric of Sherlock’s life.

What Sherlock _didn’t_ experience was things coming together in conjunction, like a triple train crash in a mighty fog. That was the sort of thing written all over John’s features now, and all in response to a simple conversation starter such as “Bad day?” Sherlock didn’t understand it, but it made his limbs grow clammy all the same.

Yet there was also something beyond tiredness on John’s face. One portion of it was surprise, as if Sherlock’s voice had reminded John that he was back home, or that Sherlock was there, too. But most of it was impossible to define, at least not methodically—it pinched straight at the tips of Sherlock’s toes and made them itch, curl.

God, John’s face. All Sherlock’s conscientiousness when studying a subject would become dust in the wind if he attempted to capture, to exhaust adjectives in describing John’s face.

He had almost forgotten he’d asked a question when John answered.

“You can say that again.”

Sherlock held his breath, awaiting more, but John only stretched his hand to wrap it at last around the handle of his cup. He took a couple of sips.

“Thanks,” he said, eyes lowering to the cup. Sherlock’s throat contracted—John was beginning to lose energy to finish his sentences. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to talk about…stuff. Harriet. _Sherlock_ wouldn’t have liked that. He thought John wouldn’t, either, but he and John weren’t one and the same. Sherlock had needed to remind himself more and more of that lately.

He tried again.

“How was your visit at Har—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Well, so much for that.

But Sherlock was relived; he felt oddly more adequate. He didn’t quite know why—after all, John had just pushed away his offer of…whatever Sherlock was offering. Anyway, Sherlock’s own feelings were immaterial. John was definitely approaching the final stage. His shoulders had slumped so much it was as if his chest had become a cavity. He’d stopped blinking, too, and his chin was giving tiny, rhythmical nods. Sherlock didn’t think John was having an inner dialogue. His head looked like a balloon that was left to bob in the lightest breeze.

Sherlock got up and closed the door, then stood by the sofa, legs brushing the armrest by John’s side.

“Take off your jacket,” he said. John lifted his head and looked at him with some fresh surprise, but after a few seconds he began shrugging off his jacket. Sherlock wanted to bite on his knuckles, relieve the need to reach out and disrobe John, push him down, fold him into a ball, and curl around him. Then squeeze until all hurt left John’s body.

John held his jacket, unsure what to do with it, but Sherlock outstretched a demanding hand and the jacket was duly placed in it. In a moment it was swinging gently on the hanger by the door.

Sherlock returned to the sofa and sat back down. “Now your shoes,” he said. John turned his head dazedly to the right this time, no doubt confused by this stereo-Sherlock, materializing on either side of him. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and his eyes pointed down to John’s feet. He blinked quickly in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. Sure enough, John reached down to undo the laces, then toed off his shoes and automatically stretched his legs. Soft cracks sounded all over his body and seemed to wake him from his reverie—he looked down at his feet, then at Sherlock, then murmured, “Thanks.”

“Better?” Sherlock said with a small smile. John nodded.

They sat for another few minutes in the same configuration, but Sherlock could spot the new changes from a mile now. John’s eyes had resumed blinking, but only at rare intervals. Each time his eyelids remained closed for longer and longer before opening again. Sherlock stretched and turned off the lamp by the sofa; the room plunged into darkness, broken by streams of streetlight coming through the half-heartedly drawn curtains. John tried to look at Sherlock. Sherlock just about made out the gleam of his eyes before the lids dropped as if John’s eyelashes were made of lead. Sherlock debated whether it would be more disruptive to get up now and fetch a blanket from his bedroom or to let John drift off properly before doing it. He decided to wait.

Good choice, too. He let his eyes get used to the dark and saw that John’s eyes had remained closed. He watched John, letting another minute pass just to be on the safe side, then another, and another—

A sharp twitch jerked John’s upper body and for a second made him seem to ripple. Sherlock’s reaction could have given a frog a run for its money—faster than its tongue he had slid to John and shot a hand across his chest to steady him, convinced John was about to fall to the left.

Instead, John tilted to the right; his head lolled and then, in one decisive motion, John’s face was effectively buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

In perverse irony, Sherlock froze quite like an amphibian’s prey. He cursed the leap of his heart, its inconsiderate, loud thumping only a hairbreadth from John’s ear. But John didn’t jolt of his new hideout; he only exhaled against Sherlock’s throat, puffs of damp air tickling Sherlock’s skin and making the goosebumps reappear again—oh, so _curious_. Sherlock remained immobile, more out of petrifaction than concern for John, his stillness only magnifying all his experiences: warmth, awkwardness, thrill, relish.

He could feel John’s breath slowing down and becoming deeper. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when suddenly John shuffled and his left arm dragged upwards until it was diagonal across Sherlock’s chest, fingers brushing Sherlock’s right shoulder. Sherlock stared down at it in slight dismay—the stripes of John’s jumper seemed like an overstretched, psychedelic chess board.

Too scared to move his head, Sherlock tried to look at John’s face next, but all he managed to see was most of his own nose. He could smell John, though, quite strongly, compensating somewhat for the lack of visual. It was the smell of Baker Street; that was how their sitting room smelt, and John’s room, and his jacket. The twenty-four-hour lack of showering had preserved all other scents on John’s skin and now Sherlock could unravel them in retroactively: Surgery, soap, shampoo, detergents, Scottish city air, train compartments, Harry’s flat, stations, the Underground—and beneath them all Baker Street, not letting itself be overridden. Sherlock nuzzled his nose in John’s hair, covertly inhaled.

And realization hit him after all these long, misguided months. John didn’t smell like Baker Street. _It_ smelled like John. This was the scent that greeted Sherlock every time he crossed the threshold of their flat, the scent that managed to penetrate all the layers of Sherlock’s preoccupation and lodge itself at the very core of what he associated with home.

He’d also never realized how much he wanted to fill his lungs with it.

Discovery upon discovery—Sherlock found himself suddenly noting that in all this time, with all they’d been through, he hadn’t once hugged John. While, again, he’d wanted to _fill_ his arms with him. Mycroft told Sherlock once that Sherlock was appalling at recognizing his own needs. What a surprise that his infernal brother should be right.

Sherlock carefully began extracting his left arm, squashed under John’s slouched body. He wasn’t making much progress—John was just as solid as he appeared—but then, without waking, John shifted his weight to allow Sherlock freedom of movement. As soon as Sherlock had his arm out, the warmth of John’s body returned with a slump, this time pressing directly into Sherlock’s ribcage. The liberated arm remained up in the air for a few seconds before Sherlock lowered it and hesitantly embraced John’s sleeping form. John snuggled closer in an instant.

Every thigh, every inside of an elbow, every single finger somehow slid and slotted in, like bits of an old jigsaw that had been put together so many times the edges of the pieces had smoothed to perfection.

Sherlock gingerly placed his cheek on top of John’s snoozing head and let his eyes close.

When he opened them next, it was to a movement from under his arm. They had both sweated, Sherlock more than John. Their shared dampness had added its trace to the somewhat stale air of the room, which had also grown colder. Sherlock shivered. He felt disorientated; he had no idea what time it was or if John had really moved. Or had he whispered to Sherlock? At that moment John shuffled again and mumbled something barely audible. It was enough for Sherlock to gather his bearings. He shifted, too, and almost groaned—his body had stayed rigid for _ages_ , bar the lift of his arm. The change produced a sniff from John whose face gently scratched against Sherlock’s throat as John lifted his head.

The all-nighters in the flat across the street had their light on; it peeked between the curtains, illuminating this corner of the room sufficiently for Sherlock to discern the outline of John’s face. It was completely relaxed and obliging to the call of gravity. John’s eyes half-opened, closed, then opened mid-way again, and stayed like that for a few seconds. Their position meant that they naturally fell on Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock held his breath and watched John’s dimmed face through his slanted eyes. Everything seemed to fall into hushed suspension. Then John’s eyelids fluttered closed as he shifted upwards and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s eyes flew wide open and strained to bring the dark blur of the room into focus. The old, familiar stream of John-related data flooded him: John’s mouth, damp and warm; John’s lips, thin but incredibly soft; the microscopic epidermal punctures the stubble on John’s upper lip produced as it pressed into Sherlock’s upper lip; and a myriad of other sensations, unified by unquantifiable delight.

Images flashed in front of Sherlock’s eyes—images he thought he’d deleted instantly but here they were, so many of them, gushing from some miraculous recovery section of his brain. Images of people kissing. Close ups of faces, of lips gently moving against each other, of mouths mashing together. Images in black and white or in startling sharpness and colour. They complied with alarming speed until they all began running like a reel, like a hand-made flipbook. Sherlock closed his eyes and parted his lips. John’s lips parted instantly, too. Sherlock felt his own tongue trembling forward until it was protruding, eager and waiting—for what? Something, _something_ to meet it in the lonely dark. An atavistic wave of anticipation swept through Sherlock; his tongue felt heavy, crying with need.

John’s exquisitely textured tongue brushed against the tip of Sherlock’s and sent Sherlock’s pleasure centres up in flames. The tips flicked against each other again, then pressed, then licked. Sherlock felt a sob form in his chest. John’s tongue caressed his once more and pulled away. Desperate, Sherlock pressed his palm against John’s neck to keep him _there_ but John softly kissed his lips and sighed against his mouth. Sherlock captured the exhale, held it and tasted it, swallowed it. His head was swimming but he could swear he felt John’s breath travel down his own respiratory system, finding a safe route all the way into his lungs. John tried to open his eyes and failed, but his chin lifted so that had his eyes been open, they would have met Sherlock’s. John’s mouth opened instead.

“S”good,” he murmured.

“Hm?” Sherlock heard himself ask with a trembling, uncertain huff.

John’s head dropped to its old place and nestled there as if he was a small animal burrowing itself for winter sleep.

“S” good,” came from the hollow. “You here.”

Sherlock swallowed and felt his lips curl into a circle. They remained so while he was searching for some response. Stupidly, only a single syllable came out.

“John?”

John breathed evenly. For a long minute Sherlock was still alert, listening, breathing John in, _trying_ to compute. The dark filled with bright spots and the noise of his own heartbeat drowned the sound of air whistling in and out of John’s nose. Sherlock took a very deep breath and tucked John in tighter under his arm. Then he dropped his head back to the sofa headrest and stared at the faintly orange canvas of the ceiling.  
 __

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Written for vardaslade. Prompt: "Graphic first kisses are the beeeeeest." Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/38806.html


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